Road Kill tcfs-5

by Zoe Sharp

  Then Daz stood up on his footpegs and backhanded the bottle he was holding straight down onto the windscreen directly in front of the driver, like he was christening a battleship.

  Even from our position, we saw the paint spray up.

  “Bull’s-eye!” I heard Daz yell. “He’s all yours!”

  The Merc had began to snake wildly, scrubbing off speed until it was down to less than fifty. We dropped our own speed back to match and I held my breath hoping the van would stop of its own accord. After a few seconds it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. They must have known this was an ambush now, and their only chance to avoid disaster was to keep moving.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” Sean’s voice said in my ear. “You ready?”

  “Lead on,” I said, terse.

  Sean ripped away the tape holding Paxo’s Zippo lighter to the headstock of the Blackbird. He already had a row of the mini sparklers we’d taken from the hotel dining room jammed in around the bike’s clocks, where the rake of the fairing would keep them more or less out of the buffeting wind.

  In this comparatively sheltered zone, Sean persuaded the Zippo to hold a flame at the third strike. He thrust his hand in among the forest of sparklers and kept it there until half a dozen of them had fizzed into life. We’d timed them back at the hotel and knew you got an average twenty-second burn out of each of the magnesium-coated rods.

  He swung his bike in on my right, close enough to hand over two of the lit sparklers. I leaned across to grab hold of the stems with my left hand. Even though I knew it was just about impossible for the wind to extinguish them, I ducked my hand into the shelter of the ‘Blade’s fairing, just in case.

  “OK,” Sean said, seemingly right inside my head. “Remember Charlie, eight seconds maximum, OK?”

  “OK,” I repeated.

  “Sure?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Sean,” I growled, “let’s just do this thing and go home, all right?”

  I glanced sideways as I spoke and realised he was grinning at me. In spite of everything.

  I grinned back and touched the burning end of the sparkler in my hand to the one poking half out of the bottle top in my tank bag. For a moment nothing happened, then it flared and caught in a glittering shower of tiny shards of light.

  One thousand, two thousand . . .

  I grabbed the bottle and yanked it free with my left hand, snapping the power on with my right and shifting my bodyweight to guide the FireBlade up the passenger side of the van as I did so. I felt rather than saw Sean doing the same on the driver’s side.

  Four thousand, five thousand . . .

  As I pulled alongside the cab window, I could see through it to the smeared mess that was the front screen. The guy nearest me turned to stare as he caught the high rev of the ‘Blade’s engine, his mouth rounding in panic as he saw what I was holding.

  Seven thousand, eight thousand . . .

  I pulled past, twisting in the seat to lob the bottle clumsily over my right shoulder as I did so, in much the same way that Paxo had done. The difference being that I wasn’t relying on the impact to shatter the glass.

  We’d pushed the sparklers halfway down inside each bottle, which we’d filled to about the two-thirds level – partly with petrol drained from Gleet’s Suzuki, and partly with the sugar Sean had appropriated from the hotel kitchen.

  Petrol in liquid form doesn’t burn easily. It’s the vapour that’s highly inflammable and we’d left a good-sized air gap at the top of each bottle to allow it to build up. The long ride up from Dublin, sitting on top of a hot motorbike with the sun on it, had done the rest.

  As soon as the sparks from our improvised fuses dipped under the taped-down caps, the petrol fumes went up. A fraction of a second later, the burning vapour ignited the liquid fuel, creating an unstoppable twin-stage explosion of dramatic proportions. The sugar helped, of course. It made the petrol burn hotter and faster, which was part of the reason we’d added it.

  Both bottles detonated with a thunderous incendiary clap, the second coming almost as an echo of the first.

  Mine went up first. It had already hit the left-hand side of the front end when it disappeared in an instant supernova of heat and light. I felt the concussive blast at my back, even as I whacked the ‘Blade’s throttle right round to the stop and catapulted out of the way.

  Despite his own instructions, Sean had held onto his bottle a second or so longer. The modified Molotov cocktail went up, still in the air, less than a metre from the driver’s side of the front screen. The deadly mixture was already a scorching boiling mass when it plastered itself onto the glass.

  I held the FireBlade at full chat for another two seconds, peripherally aware that the front end of Sean’s bike had popped up level with my knee. It was only then that I backed off long enough to risk putting my head into the vicious slipstream to glance in my mirrors.

  The Merc van was on fire. The whole of the front end seemed totally engulfed in dirty orange flame, even the tyres. That was the other reason for the sugar. It glued the blazing petrol to whatever it touched, like napalm.

  As I watched, the van swerved violently onto the other side of the road, into the path of a truck heading in the opposite direction. The truck locked up and the trailer stepped out, narrowly avoiding a jack-knife.

  The Merc locked up, too, broadsided, skidding back across to its own side of the carriageway and carrying on without stopping. It shot straight across the hard shoulder and bounced violently down the short embankment, crashing through the wooden fence at the bottom and ripping out half its front suspension in the process. It finally came to rest, still on fire – and, remarkably enough, still on what was left of its wheels – about a hundred metres into the field.

  As soon as we saw the van was going to crash, both Sean and I had grabbed for the brakes. I’d always thought the cross-drilled discs on my Suzuki had been good until I’d found out just how amazing the FireBlade’s brakes were. I felt the compression in my arms as the front forks dived, my belly wedging hard against the back of the tank.

  The road was wide enough to swing round, even on a modern sports bike with no steering lock to speak of. We flashed back to the point where the van had left the road, pulling the bikes to a jerky stop on the hard shoulder. A car had already stopped there and the elderly man inside was just climbing out as we roared up. He asked us something but we didn’t stop to find out what it was.

  The embankment was steep enough that Sean and I had to slide and slither our way down it, vaulting the fence at the bottom and breaking into a flat run across the field. Sean outstripped my pace easily, unbuckling his helmet as he went, yanking the radio wire out of his leathers and stooping to place rather than throw it down onto the ground. I followed suit.

  The front of the Merc van was still ablaze. It was surface burn, not close to touching the inside of the engine bay or the fuel system, but Hollywood has implanted the idea that any vehicle on fire is likely to explode at any moment. I could hear shouts and screams from the men inside.

  Just as we reached the van the driver’s door was flung open and a burning apparition lurched out, bleeding from a dozen deep shrapnel wounds. I realised to my horror that, when Sean’s Molotov hit, the driver must have been partially leaning out of the window, possibly trying to see round the obscured windscreen.

  Now, he was coated in flaming petrol that, as it was intended, had welded itself to his skin as it burned. The stench of his flesh and hair on fire almost made me gag. He rushed at us, flailing his arms and shrieking like the damned.

  Without the faintest hesitation, Sean pivoted on one leg and kicked the Merc driver high in the chest. The man’s legs swept out from underneath him with the force of the blow and he landed hard on his back on the ground. Sean immediately stripped off his own leather jacket and smothered the flames, pinning the man down as he put him out.

  As he did so, one of the other men from the front of the van appeared
through the smoke billowing round the bonnet. He barely glanced at me as he came past, dismissing whatever threat he thought I might present, all his focus on Sean.

  Sean was crouching by the driver, still stifling the flames as the man thrashed and screamed. I knew I couldn’t let the driver’s accomplice get to him in such a vulnerable position.

  This new player was smaller than the driver, thin and wiry, with dark hair and a couple of days’ beard growth. He didn’t quite fit Gleet’s description of a bouncer type but, when he reached inside his jacket, I saw why he didn’t need to rely on muscle to get the job done for him.

  His right hand came out of his pocket holding a baton like the one Eamonn had used, in the closed position. He moved around me, still advancing, and snapped his arm down and back and away from his body to telescope the two inner segments of the baton into place.

  I darted sideways, eyes on the hand that held the weapon. I jerked up with my left hand behind the man’s wrist as I punched down hard with my clenched fist on the back of his elbow joint.

  Normally the elbow is one of the strongest joints in your body because it’s well protected by the surrounding muscles, but not this time. The man’s arm was straight to the point of hyper-extension from the action of opening out the baton.

  I heard the splintering crack of his elbow joint popping apart, even over the driver’s cries.

  His arm seemed to instantly disconnect from the rest of his body, taking on a dead rubbery quality. The baton dropped from fingers he suddenly had no control over. He had time to turn his head in my direction, eyes wide with a kind of hurt surprise, as though I’d cheated somehow.

  I didn’t give him time to get used to the idea.

  I snatched up the baton on its second bounce, reversed it into my hand and slashed at his right kneecap with it, putting him down and out of the fight.

  Aware that there had been three men in the front of the Merc, I spun round, tensed, the baton gripped tight in my fist, to find William, Paxo and Daz staring at me from about ten metres in front of the van. The third man was slumped on the grass at their feet. There was enough blood on his forehead to suggest he’d knocked himself about in the crash and they’d just dragged him clear.

  I shut my mind to the horrified fascination on their faces.

  “Don’t just stand there,” I shouted, my own shame making my voice harsh. “Jamie’s still in the back. Get him out!”

  There was a second’s immobility, then Paxo broke it, making quickly for the rear of the van. The others were close behind him, wrenching the doors open just as I reached them.

  Inside, the back of the Merc had been panelled out to make a flat-sided plywood box. Jamie lay crumpled in one of the front corners, hard up behind the cab. His hands were roughly tied behind him and to his ankles, so his knees were bent right back.

  The fear on his face when the doors were thrust open took a moment to change to relief as he screwed up his tear-riven eyes against the sudden flood of light.

  “Christ,” he said on a gasp that was almost a sob. “Oh, thank Christ.”

  I jumped up into the back, unzipping my jacket pocket and pulling out my faithful Swiss Army knife to slice through the packing tape they’d used to secure him. They must have got through half a roll of it, wrapped round and round his limbs until it had become one twisted sticky brown band.

  “What about his bike?” William asked as we cut the last of the tape free and Jamie unfolded himself with a grunt.

  The little Honda had been shoved into the back of the van and lashed to ring-bolts at one side. It was leaning precariously but the webbing straps they’d used had held. Good job too, or the bike would have toppled right on top of Jamie during the crash.

  “Forget it,” Sean said from the rear doorway. He jerked his head in the direction of the road. “We’d never get it back up the embankment and we’ve attracted too much attention as it is.”

  Jamie was too shaken up even to protest about abandoning his ride but he had other things on his mind. “Hey, what about the money and the stones?”

  “Leave them – leave them all,” I snapped as Daz and William half-dragged, half-carried him out of the back of the van, the blood-flow to his legs still fighting the constriction.

  The driver was out, in both senses of the word. Wisps of smoke still rose from his skin and clothing, but there were no actual flames. Sean had left him in a semi recovery position sprawled on his side in the grass. The man the others had rescued was still unconscious, too, but the one I’d hit was sitting up a few metres away, clutching his broken elbow in a way that reminded me sharply of Gleet.

  And suddenly I had a series of vivid mental images, not just of Gleet with his shattered arm, but of the diamond courier sitting propped on the dirty toilet with the gaping wound in his throat, robbed of his dignity along with his life. And of the fear captured immobile on Tess’s face as she lay dead in the hotel bathtub. The driver might or might not survive his injuries, but he was a casualty of battle. The others had been little more than executions.

  I stopped briefly alongside the man with the broken elbow. He looked up at me with a dull hatred in his eyes that only served to fan my anger.

  “Tell Eamonn this ends here,” I said, my voice cold. “But if he wants to take it further we will finish it – and him. Understand?”

  The man paused, not wanting to give me an inch. Then his gaze flicked round the faces of the others, all silently intent on him, and the precariousness of his position seemed to dawn on him. He nodded, not meeting my eyes. I leaned in close. He struggled with himself not to lean away from me.

  “And if you should think about changing your mind later,” I added quietly, “I swear I’ll come back and break your other arm.”

  Twenty-eight

  By the time we’d got Jamie back to the bottom of the embankment – Sean and I retrieving our helmets as we went – a small crowd had gathered on the road above us. A couple of the braver onlookers ventured down the steep slope and made for the van and the men lying around it. Their sideways glances as they passed made it clear that they knew we were to blame for what had happened, but nobody quite wanted to call us on it, even so.

  Jamie was mobile enough to climb back up unaided, though he was still pale and unsteady when we reached the top. The rest of the crowd parted silently and let us pass. Anyone who was thinking of mounting a challenge took one look at our set faces and quickly changed their mind. We hurried through them back to the bikes.

  The Devil’s Bridge Club had left their machines scattered across the hard shoulder near where Sean and I had stopped. Now we all jumped back on board, Jamie climbing on behind William, who handed him his helmet.

  We took the couple of seconds required to plug our radio headsets back in before we all jammed our lids on and fired up the motors. As we pulled away I looked back over my shoulder, down towards the Merc van.

  The flames had died back and mostly gone out as the petrol exhausted itself. The paint was blackened around the front end and had largely burned away from the glass where Daz had scored his direct hit on the windscreen.

  The bystanders who’d gone to help were clustered around the driver but their movements seemed uncertain, as though they’d very little idea of what to do for him. He was going to need years of plastic surgery – if he survived. And we’d done that to him.

  I tried to feel sorry, but it wasn’t something that came easy.

  “So, what do we do now?” It was Daz who voiced the question over the radio and I realised that we hadn’t talked about what happened after we intercepted the van. All our efforts had been focused on getting Jamie back.

  “We head for the next ferry,” Sean said, pulling out smoothly to overtake a farm tractor, getting back into a rhythm. “Any ideas, William?”

  “We’ve missed the Belfast to Heysham boat, but there should be one coming in to Larne in less than an hour,” William said after a moment’s consideration. “I know the guys on board and they should
be able to squeeze us onto it. That’ll take us across to Troon.”

  “Good enough,” Sean said. “Anywhere away from here will do.”

  Compared to our earlier pace, we rode almost sedately round the outskirts of Belfast and headed up the A2 for Larne. I was bringing up the rear of the group and all the way I had one eye on my mirrors, watching for signs of pursuit. None came.

  By the time we dropped down into the harbour at Larne and saw the reassuring bulk of the ferry waiting there, I couldn’t help a small sigh of relief. As William had predicted, he was a known face to the ticketing staff at the gate. He negotiated our way on board without any real fuss and the bikes were slotted in to one side of the car deck

  “Might be a rough crossing today,” one of the crew told us. “We’ll make sure they’re well strapped down for you.”

  We clattered our way up the metal staircase to the passenger deck and William led the way towards the First Class lounge at the stern, charming his way in with a friendly greeting to the smartly-uniformed woman in charge.